The man looked to be in his early 20s, but I couldn’t completely tell because he looked so different from the kind of person we see around Papersville on a daily basis. He had long blond locks flowing past his denim vest that opened to another flowing area of blond hair on his chest, along with tight leather pants and black boots beneath. And even though I was cutting the grass on the shady side of the Universal factory that day, it was still a surprise to see what could only be a real rock star now standing virtually face-to-face with me. The factory was really just that – a factory. It was not a place ever frequented by the untouchable music legends who appeared in the grooves of what that factory produced.

“Thanks a lot for cleaning it up around here for me,” the man said.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

I’ve got this signing thing here starting in an hour or so.”

“I know. My boss told me to make this area look real nice.”

“Well, thanks again,” the rocker said. “So you’re from around here, you say. What street?”

“East Lake Drive.”

“Hey, I grew up on West Lake. Small world. We don’t have the house anymore. My dad died and my mom is in a nursing home over in Mayfair. I split my time between my penthouse in the city and my ranch house out in L.A.”

“Are you here to visit your mom?”

“Well, yeah. But I’ve got a lot of fans in these parts, so it seemed like a good idea to do a little something special for them. I’m going to sign autographs and then play some songs on the acoustic guitar right here.”